Secret Goddess Code

by Peggy Webb

  “Who said anything about facelifts?”

  “One woman had so many botched jobs, her skin looked like one of them dogs with the saggy skin. What’re they called?”

  “Shar-Pei. And it’s those dogs, Roberta.”

  “Who gives a shit? All I’m saying is the femme fatals out here are younger than my tennis shoes.”

  “Okay, you’ve made your point.” I take a sip of my drink. “And it’s femmes fatale. Not fatals.”

  “One woman couldn’t even shut her eyes to sleep.”

  “Roberta, I’m not having a facelift. And that’s final.”

  “Well, good.”

  “Fine. Don’t say another word.”

  “Pass the margaritas?”

  She’s grinning and I start laughing and can’t stop. Sometimes this is all we have, the ability to laugh at ourselves, no matter what.

  Mix a charge card with a vacation and you’ve got a miracle.

  —Angie

  IF I’D KNOWN Mom could be transformed by shopping in a different city, I’d have gone with her to all those malls she wanted to drag me to when we were vacationing in Myrtle Beach or Gulf Shores and I just wanted to lie on the sand and work on my tan.

  She’s in the dressing room trying on outfits, every one of them blue because Roberta told her they brought out the color of her eyes. She acted like it was news to her. You’d think she didn’t even own a mirror.

  Okay. So I’m not being quite fair here. Mom spends most of her time in the kitchen and the rest on the telephone drumming up support for her committees. I blame the committee thing squarely on her, but I’ll have to say that if it weren’t for the restaurant, she might do something besides bake forty different kinds of pies.

  Dad ought to see that. I can tell you one thing: seeing Mom in Hollywood has opened my eyes, too. I’m not going to let Jackson—or any other man for that matter—stick me in a rut and leave me there. Women in ruts mold over.

  Here comes Mom in a pretty linen two-piece dress with a swingy skirt.

  “What do you think?”

  Life as I know it has come to an end. She’s asking my opinion. I almost look behind me to see who she’s talking to, but Roberta’s gone and so I know it’s me.

  “You’ve got great legs, Mom.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. You ought to show them off more often.”

  “That settles it. I’m buying this dress.”

  I think I’ve been promoted to wardrobe mistress. A big step up from troublesome teen.

  Wait till I tell Sally.

  Or maybe I won’t. Some people live their whole lives at the center of their own sad little dramas. I don’t want to be like that. It would be nice for a change to be the one having a good time with a really cool mom.

  If a one-man woman struts her stuff, will the seismic shift be heard all the way to Mississippi?

  —Jenny

  I CAN’T remember the last time I bought a dress with anything in mind except whether the neckline was high enough to pass muster at Bougefala Baptist Church. And I certainly can’t remember the last time anybody commented on my legs.

  My own daughter. I can hardly believe it.

  I spread the dress on the bed in this guest room that looks like something out of Architectural Digest—skylights and interesting angles, furniture solid and expensive-looking without being fussy, soft sand colors accented with the amazing golds and pinks and purples of a sunset. Then I step into the shower. Roberta’s taking Angie and me out to dinner. Somewhere fancy, was all she’d say.

  Gloria was in bed with a headache when we got back from Macy’s. How can you blame her? If I had a houseful of people up to their ears in problems, I’d go to bed, too.

  She’s a saint for taking us in. That’s all I can say.

  I step into the shower and enjoy the sheer luxury of standing under the water without having to worry about hurrying so I can cook supper. Gloria has these great big plush terry-cloth robes hanging on the door. Just for guests, she said. When I finish my bath I wrap myself up like a pampered princess and stroll barefoot to the French doors to watch the moon shining on her swimming pool.

  It’s beautiful here. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t be happy?

  Me. Silly me, who can’t stop thinking about Rick.

  When my cell phone beeps to let me know there’s a call I missed, I run like I’m planning to jump into a lifeboat. And maybe I am. The caller ID shows Rick’s name.

  I press Listen.

  “Jenny, where do you keep the clean sheets? The bed needs changing and I can’t find them.”

  So much for lifeboats. In a knee-jerk reaction I start dialing, then stop. Just stop.

  We’ve been married twenty-three years and this man can’t even find the sheets? Where does he think they come from? The little sheet fairies?

  “Up yours, Rick. Find your own darned sheets.”

  Nobody hears me, but I feel better just saying it aloud. I look in the mirror, fluff up my hair, wonder how I’d look if I put in some red highlights, then march to the bed and put on the dress that makes my legs look six feet long.

  Well, maybe not, but who’s measuring? As long as people notice.

  Heck, if a man notices tonight, I’m liable to notice him right back.

  CHAPTER 12

  If you don’t plan to fool around, how far should a hand on the knee go? And where’s the goddess code when you need it?

  —Jenny

  Oh…my…gosh. We’re at the Magic Castle. This is a place I’ve only dreamed about, a private club where you can’t even get in the parking lot, much less the door, unless you’re a member or the guest of one. And to be a member you have to be a magician.

  It turns out Roberta’s husband Hubert, who is a retired electrical engineer, knows how to levitate his wife. And I’m not talking about sex, though from the way he’s eyeing her, he probably does that, too. He’s a hobby magician.

  And so is his brother, Max, who just happens to be in town for the evening. Or so Roberta says.

  Good lord, I think she’s trying to set me up. The bad part is, I like it. Or maybe that’s the good part, and the bad part is, I feel guilty. Like I’m going to jump between the sheets with this short bald man wearing a dark summer suit and a handlebar mustache. Really. I know he sounds awful but somehow he ends up being cute. Not like my drop-your-pants gorgeous Rick. More like some olive-skinned stranger who’s not really all that good-looking but is a bit exotic and somehow sexy.

  He kisses my hand when we meet, then leans close to hear what I have to say while we eat very tender steak in a beautiful dining room with soft lighting.

  And what am I telling him?

  “My husband Rick is a whiz with food. Owns his own restaurant. Built it from scratch. People come from all over northeast Mississippi just to see him. He was a local basketball star, and sports fans still see him as a celebrity.”

  I can’t seem to shut up. Angie’s looking pleased as pie that I’m talking about her daddy instead of plotting to betray him, and Roberta’s watching me like I’m somebody who rolled off the watermelon truck and ought to know better.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Max.” I say this in my best imitation of Jillian Rockwell’s goddess purr.

  “Nothing I could say about me is nearly as interesting as you,” he says.

  I know it’s a line and so does my daughter, who rolls her eyes. If we were home and heard some man say that on a TV movie, I’d giggle and she’d say oh, puhleeze.

  Instead she begs off dessert and asks if she can be excused. I’m proud of her. For all her aggravating qualities, at least she has manners.

  “Is it okay if I wait in the piano bar?”

  I tell her it is. She’s been intrigued by that bar ever since Roberta explained that Irma, the ghost pianist, takes requests. I’m sure it’s just a player piano, but Roberta says you can call out a song and Irma will play it.

  That’s Hollywood for you. Full of tricks and surprises.


  “Okay. We’ll meet you there.”

  Actually I’m glad she’s gone. How can I try out my new dress and test my goddess wiles while my teenage daughter watches?

  After she leaves, Roberta says, “Jenny, tell Max about your roses.”

  Okay. I can talk about flowers. That seems safe enough. Not domestic. Maybe even a bit romantic.

  “I don’t have the wonderful California climate for roses, but with a lot of care and feeding plus heavy watering in our hot, dry summers, I grow some really nice varieties.”

  “What’s your favorite color?” Max asks, and when I tell him pink, he reaches up and plucks a pink rose from the air.

  “Ohmygosh. That’s wonderful.”

  “You like that?” Max hands me the rose, then reaches behind my ear and plucks out a silver dollar.

  Roberta’s beaming and nodding, and I’m thinking that the Magic Castle is full of dark nooks and crannies where a hurting, unsure-of-herself woman from Mississippi might let a nice, sexy magician who pulls roses from the air hold her hand. Or more.

  That’s probably deprivation talking, but, lord, wouldn’t a little male attention be nice? Even if I don’t plan to do anything drastic. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could feel attractive and interesting and worth a bit of effort? Just for one night?

  It turns out Max is too much of a gentleman to put his hand on my knee, but when we leave the table he does put it on my elbow and guide me toward the piano bar.

  I’m feeling pampered, and a bit mellow from the wine, and I admit to letting my hip brush against his.

  Before Angie was born, Rick and I used to go outside on beautiful summer nights and have a glass of wine in the gazebo. I’d lean against him and we’d watch the stars. He knows the names of the constellations and which planets move closer to the moon at specific times of the year.

  Rick has a magic all his own. Or at least he once had. I wonder if it’s still there, hidden under layers of responsibility and neglect.

  Not that I’m making excuses for him. I got caught up in diapers and he got caught up in building a business. Then we both immersed ourselves in Angie’s activities—the elementary school plays where she was a sunflower or a tree or a rabbit, the painful piano recitals till she finally announced she hated music, the swim practices, swim meets and fundraisers for the swim team, all the hoopla of being a supportive parent.

  And I don’t regret a minute of it. Not one second. Still, I mourn for what we lost.

  And I don’t know how to get it back. Or even if I can.

  “Mom.” Angie spots me and trots over, dragging a scrawny-looking boy. “You’ve got to see this.”

  In a roped-off area, the piano keys are flying up and down as if invisible fingers are playing “Beale Street Blues.”

  “That’s amazing. Did you request the song, Angie?”

  “I’m not talking about the song. I’m talking about Marshall.” Oh lord, what kind of boy is named Marshall?

  “Watch this,” she adds, and the gangly boy at her side proceeds to pull three balls out of nowhere and start juggling. Suddenly there are four balls, then five, then six.

  Now I’m thinking she’s going to run away to Las Vegas with Marshall where she’ll spend the rest of her life in a box while he saws her in half.

  And maybe that’s what happens to all of us when we stop paying attention.

  I’m just a foolish, overprotective mother. I brought her out here to have a great time, so why am I worried when she does?

  “Marshall’s doing a show in fifteen minutes,” Angie tells us, “and he’s going to call me onstage.”

  “That’s great.” I try to work up some enthusiasm, but she’s too excited to pay me any attention.

  When we leave the ghost of Irma behind and troop behind Marshall and Angie, I’m grateful for this: she hasn’t pulled out her cell phone to call Jackson one single time since we got here. Okay, maybe they have signs that you can’t use them in here. I didn’t notice.

  But I don’t think she did. What I believe is that my daughter is finally getting a glimpse of possibilities outside Mooreville, Mississippi, and Jackson Tucker. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.

  The showroom is one of the bigger ones, Max tells me as he deftly steers me toward a dark corner. I check to see that Roberta and Hubert are close behind. Not that I don’t trust Max. But there’s something heady about being in this place of magic. I’m not sure I trust myself.

  As Marshall takes the stage, Max reaches for my hand. Here’s the amazing thing. I don’t like it. Not because of any guilty I’m-betraying-my-husband feelings, but because it doesn’t feel right. The shape, the texture of his skin, the way his thumb feels as he makes circles in my palm. There’s nothing sexy and exciting about it. It just tickles. And it doesn’t make me feel interesting or cute or even halfway desirable.

  It makes me believe he saw an opportunity and seized it. Not even because he wanted to, but because his sister-in-law expects it. Maybe Roberta even demanded it.

  The thing I’m learning here is that holding hands is just two pieces of flesh bumping against each other unless there’s a real connection between the people involved.

  And the only connection I want is thousands of miles away.

  Angie’s on stage while Marshall pulls colored scarves out of her hair. Her smile makes everything worthwhile—the trip I didn’t really want to make, the nights I’ve stayed awake watching the clock for her to come home, even the arguments with Rick over our many differences about what spoils a child.

  This is just life, full of highs and lows with rare moments of gliding along on an even keel.

  When she takes a bow, I pull my hand away from Max to applaud, and I don’t let him have it again. Even when we end up back in the piano bar where he tries to recapture the mood by asking my favorite song. I lie and tell him I don’t have one and he requests “Eternally,” which is meant for people falling in love.

  I’m already in love. With my husband. And that’s forever.

  The more I see, the less I discover I know.

  —Angie

  I THOUGHT I had it all figured out, but I never expected to meet Marshall tonight. Listen, contrary to what some people think, I’m no starry-eyed kid. I’m not talking about love at first sight or anything like that. All I’m saying is that he’s a nice guy who’s lots of fun. And he knows Tom Cruise. Honestly. His uncle worked on one of Tom’s movie sets, and Marshall got to meet him.

  And Marshall’s got this neat group of friends he told me about and I’m dying to have over—one whose daddy is an astronaut, one who builds robots in her basement, and one who works summers with the marine life at Sea World in San Diego.

  I never dreamed the world could be so big. The future I planned with Sally over double cheeseburgers with fries and talked about with Jackson in the back seat of my car has lost some of its appeal.

  Sometimes I guess you have to leave home to find out what you really want.

  When the world’s unraveling and so are you, wear red lipstick. Fool everybody.

  —Gloria

  “I CAN’T believe you did that.”

  Roberta’s sitting opposite me at the glass table in the sunroom, not the least bit contrite about her clandestine trip to the Magic Castle last night with my guests.

  Furthermore, she’s having a logger’s breakfast of bacon and eggs and biscuits with sawmill gravy while I sip tomato juice, which is all my poor head will allow.

  “You told me to be nice,” she says. “I was being nice.”

  “You got me drunk so you could fix Jenny up with Max. Of all people.”

  “I didn’t see you trying to resist that pitcher full of margaritas. And what’s wrong with Max?”

  “For one thing, you tried to set him up with me.”

  “And you’re jealous?”

  “Of course I’m not jealous. He’s all hands. How could you do that to Jenny?”

  “I didn’t notice her complaining. And besides, I
thought it would be good for her. And maybe make that husband of hers sit up and take notice.”

  “What did you do? Take pictures?”

  “I didn’t need to.”

  “Good lord. You’re counting on Angie telling her father.”

  “I didn’t roll in here off a watermelon rind.”

  “Watermelon truck.”

  “Who cares? At least I’m trying to fix things instead of setting on my skinny butt with a hangover.”

  “Sitting.”

  “You’re going to be laid out flat if you don’t shut up and get dressed. You’ve got an appointment with that old fox at the studio in about three hours.”

  “Good grief. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I guess because I’m crazy. I guess because I wanted you to spoil my breakfast with a lecture and a grammar lesson. Oh, and by the way. You got a phone call from Mississippi while you were moaning and groaning in the shower this morning.”

  “You’re fired.”

  “You’ve already fired me about two hundred and eighty times.”

  “Watch your step, or one of these days I’ll mean it.”

  I race as fast as I can, which means I halfway hurry while holding onto my throbbing head. Roberta scrawled the message on my incoming calls log.

  “Matt Tucker, Mooreville, MS. Sounds like Humphrey Bogart in his heyday with Lauren Bacall. You ought to take a lesson from Bacall’s book. Let some of that hair fall down into one eye then seduce the pants off him.”

  Lord, Roberta’s sassy ways and sassy notes have kept me smiling even when I felt as if the rest of the world was falling down around my ears. I owe her a bonus. And some roses. Someday Roberta’s going to retire, and then who will I have?

  I pat my hair into place, slash on red lipstick, and try to get myself into a good mood. Then I pick up the phone and dial Tuck’s number.

  “Gloria?”

  Lord, that mesmerizing, horse whisperer’s voice. I have to sit down.

  “How are you, Tuck?”

  “I’m coming to Del Mar. Racing Tuck’s Golden Boy.”

  I try to read between the lines, but can’t. I don’t know if it’s because of the state of my head or the state of my heart.